Laugh or Go Mad
by Cynewulf
Summary: How didi Fiona feel after she stabbed Brand. And hoe does she feel about it now that everything is over. Fiona PoV, first person.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: The characters and the plot belong to Zelazny. This fic is a part of the PoV writing experiment at Endless Shadows.  
  
A/N: Since html code is a personal enemy of mine, this is in text format. Consider everything written in all capitals to be there instead of itallics I would normally use. Besides, when you see this [1], it's a footnote. RThe asterisk simply won't work for me, and it's another mystery never to be solved... Oh, and this is just the first chapter, there'll be at least two more, I think...  
(Now I'm going to try the ff.net editor, and turn the capitals into italics. We'll see if it works...)  
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Written word is no domain of mine, not really. The Faiellites are the writers in the family, just like Rilgans are able to sing prettily. We, the Redheads, are skilled at some more important stuff - like power of mind, energies, and yes, magic. But now, if I want to explain what happened that night, and, more importantly, how I felt, I'm forced to write. No magic can help me here. So... how _did_ I feel?  
  
And how would have _you_ felt had you just been forced to stab your favorite brother because he'd gone psycho?  
  
My feelings on the subject of Brand were mixed. Saying "subject of Brand" might feel clumsy, but it makes it easier for me. As if I were looking at him through a microscope. Be scientific, Fi. Cold, distant, and objective. Try, at least.  
  
Schooling your feelings is far more difficult than schooling your face.   
  
The three of us had always stuck together: Bleys, Brand, and I. Bleys was the most talented of us, no doubt there; if you wanted to see brilliance walking, you just had to look at him. He had twice the wit or sharpness of myself and Brand counted together (and let's not be falsely modest here: both Brand and I are monstrously intelligent). Only, Bleys has always been ten times as lazy as we were hardworking. He never achieved half the power or wisdom Brand and I did - and he thought he didn't need them, either. He was Bleys. Why would you need to improve if you already _are_ a Bleys. Or so he felt. At least I think so. On the other hand, were you in trouble, you could turn to Bleys. He'd cheer you up, comfort you, and protect you - if he didn't forget about you in the process. Responsibility has never been one of his qualities. But when I felt bad for any reason, I always sought Bleys.  
  
Brand was another matter. Support would be too much to expect from him. But he was probably the only person in the world (besides from myself) that I felt I needed to protect. Mostly from himself. If Bleys was a fire (conflagration, more likely), Brand was the Sun. Bright, distant, and sometimes hidden by clouds. Clouds of depression, I think, in Brand's case. Most of us know how to deal with a conflagration. But how to handle a Sun gone mad, a sun threatening to burn itself out and destroy everything else in the process?  
  
I'm lost in my own lousy metaphors. Damnit, It hurts to admit this, but I promised myself I'll be completely sincere here: even... Deirdre was a better writer than me.  
  
I'm not absolutely sure what had happened to Brand, and I don't want to speculate. To hear my family discuss it, you'd think they have spent centuries studying Shadow psychiatry - and I think they enjoy that kind of discussions, too. Let's see what we think was wrong with Brand. Let's vivisect his personality, his drives and motives, although we know hardly anything about either of these. Brand was a paranoid-schizophrenic case: discuss! Sometimes they even go so far as to suggest the "illness" might have been genetical [1] . But... there I got what I asked for. Let me give you a piece of advice: never spy on your family if you can't handle their opinion on you.  
  
But I digress. I just wanted to tell you how fond I was of Brand, while he still was himself. He was my baby brother, someone I cared about almost as much as about myself, and this should mean something. I spent centuries trying to shelter him and protect him. Obviously, I failed. No need to get pathetic or sentimental here. If I do that only once, I'll have to imprison _myself_ in a tower next.  
  
The imprisonment was my idea, and it _was_ necessary. Bleys agreed, as he always does if you succeed in keeping his concentration for long enough to give him your arguments (and also, if you succeed in ignoring his tasteless jokes on the subject. Some of us really are incorrigible). So we created the prison for our brother. The guards were mine, as you may have already guessed. The setting was, of course, Bleys's. Let Bleys lose on a valley and see what happens.   
  
"Sorry Brand, old buddy, but you've gone all wee mad, and left us no choice," as Bleys nicely put it. Always trust that one to be tactless, no matter what.  
  
I don't have a stomach to write about what Brand looked like when I saw him trough his trump. Mad. Mad and dangerous. That was my mantra for the occasion. Mad and dangerous and not himself any more. Innocent look about me (as much as I'm capable of it, anyway) and a dagger in Brand's left kidney: not the best of plans, but the only one available at the moment. Otherwise, I'd have to admit to everything we'd done - and I simply couldn't make myself do that. Call it fear, call it what you like. No, I didn't think what the three of us had done was a good idea, not any more. But to admit so and let _Corwin_ and the rest _judge_ me? Judge _us_? No way. So, stabbing it was; stabbing and the hope my brother won't live long enough as to say who did it.  
  
Vomiting was not an option afterwards, so I chose wine. Wine to keep me calm, to keep my face straight, to numb my emotions and give me courage. Have you ever heard of a wronger usage of wine? Looking at my list, you probably understand that it may partly succeed only in giving one the courage needed. But it's the wrong kind of courage most of the time.  
  
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[1] (yes, the footnote): I won't mention any names, but some of us think they know _everything_ on the human psyche only because they were psychoanalyzed by Freud. I mean, I have spoken not only to both Jung and Adler on a number of occasions, but also to all the best Shadow psychiatrists Dad brought to try to help Dworkin. And I don't boast about it. I don't even put it in the body of the text. 


	2. chapter II

Disclaimer: The characters belong to Zelazny, of course, as does the most of the dialog.  
  
Gearard was seeing to Brand, and that wasn't good. It increased Brand's chances of survival considerably, for one thing. I inspected my glass and took another sip. Bayle's Best, for sure, and more than a century old. I wished I was able to feel the taste.  
  
Llewella brought a tray stuffed with food and put it down beside Gerard. She looked positively miserable, and I might have smiled almost encouragingly in any other circumstances.  
  
"But why," she said, looking up at Corwin, who obviously thought he was the right person to take charge. The same arrogant bastard as always, the Jewel on his throat. The others seemed to accept it for some reason, however, and Llewella first of all.   
  
"That only leaves us. Why would one of us want to do it?" she said.  
  
Gerard wasn't brainy, but he was paranoid; Florimel would have kept silent and let others speak; Llewella, however... I've never considered her stupid, but she was probably the only one of us who might ask a question like this and actually MEAN it. And Corwin asked her, of all people, for the opinion:  
  
"Whose prisoner do you think he might have been?"  
  
Llewella shrugged.  
  
"One of us?"  
  
I took another sip in order to hide a smile. Not a cheerful smile, mind. I was half turned towards the pair, and I caught a glimpse of the four of us in the mirror. Gerard's back made it completely impossible for me to see Brand, which was probably for the better. No looking at Brand, no thinking about Brand. Corwin seemed calm enough, but his mouth was somewhat tight. Llewella and myself, however... We've always quite resembled each other physically and I couldn't help but think we looked like a photo and its negative. My red hair and her green, my dress green and hers, for some reason, the colour of wine (I suspected Florimel had a say in _that_). Only our faces told completely different stories. Mine was unreadable - fortunately - and Llewela's eyes were wide and sad, her brows somewhat tightened. She had perfect self control most of the time, of course, and therefore I knew she must have been quite shaken. Not that I had any compassion to spare.  
  
"If he possessed knowledge which someone was willing to go to this length to suppress, what do you think?" Corwin said. "The same reason also served to put him where he was and keep him there."  
  
"That does not make sense either. Why didn't they just kill him and be done with it?"  
  
"Must have had some use for him.But there is really only one person who can answer that question adequately. When you find him, ask him."  
  
"Or her," Julian said. Liking Julian was beyond me, as it was beyond anyone else, I guess. Trying not to dislike him too intensely craved enough of my energy already. But, if you are to have an opinion on someone, you need to understand at least some of their motives or thoughts, at least sometimes. One could read Corwin or Eric easily most of the time. With Benedict or Caine it was more difficult, but you could do it. I won't even mention Gerard. But who could say what happened in that head of Julian's, what emotions, if any, he had? Damn, Brand hated him (a big surprise there, isn't it?), and Bleys sort of pitied him. I didn't know what to think. Sometimes he displayed some strange, twisted excuse for affection towards me, and although it made me very uncomfortable, it also flattered me.   
  
"Or her," Julian said, flicking his eyes toward me for just a split of a second, and suddenly I knew he knew. "Sister, you seem possessed of a superabundance of naiveté, suddenly."  
  
I took a long sip of wine, and it took me a moment to realize the last statement was directed at Llewella. Relieved to go back to my role of a silent observer, I smiled. My thoughts raged, my glass was empty, and I needed to sit down. I still smiled. Julian knew, damn it. What was I going to do? As many times before, I silently thanked myself for the perfect control over my facial muscles.  
  
Llewella stared back at Julian, every trace of emotion having left her face, her voice icy. Runs in the family, I guess.  
  
"As I recall," she said, "you rose from your seat when they came through, turned to the left, rounded the desk, and stood slightly to Gerard's right. You leaned pretty far forward. I believe your hands were out of sight, below."  
  
"And as I recall," he said, "you were within striking distance yourself, off to Gerard's left-and leaning forward."  
  
"I would have had to do it with my left hand-and I am right-handed."  
  
"Perhaps he owes what life he still possesses to that fact."  
  
"You seem awfully anxious, Julian, to find that it was someone else."  
  
Julian kept his gaze on Llewella's face, and almost made a point of not looking at me. I knew what he was doing. First he had tried to blame it on the guards, and then on Llewella. Julian's attempts to protect me might have been half-endearing-half-ridiculous at any other moment. Now I didn't have time to feel either flattered or amused. It simply gave me an idea. I thought I had seen a glimpse of steel in his own hand also, as I stabbed Brand. Well, intentions count too, don't they?  
  
Corwin interfered again, calmed them down a bit, and this time I was almost glad he was taking charge. A whole-night argument was to be counted with, I think even Florimel would see that. Benedict was a cold fish, and of course unlikely to say anything. And with Gerard busy, there had to be someone else who would pull us from each other's throats. If it had to be Corwin, so be it.   
  
After Gerard threw us out of the library, we all moved upstairs to the small green drawing room that has never quite been my favorite, despite the colours. Now it made me feel even worse. It reminded me of Dworkin and my studies under him, and therefore of Brand. I was not going to think of Brand, though. There was one good thing about that room, and that was the bar. I had successfully avoided Julian's eyes on the stairway, and now I stood in the corner of the room farthest from him. Incidentally, the bar was just beside me. I eyed a bottle of absinthe hungrily, but decided it wouldn't do to mix the drinks. I was a bit unstable as it was, and I've never been able hold alcohol as well as some of the others.   
  
"Allow me, please, sister" I heard a familiar and not-too-well-loved voice beside me, as Random took away the glass from me. I surrendered it gratefully, suddenly becoming aware of the fact that my hands were slightly shaking.   
  
"Bayle's best, I assume?" he inquired, suddenly playing at being polite. I concentrated for a moment, making my hands perfectly still in the mid-air before I took the glass back. Then I flashed a smile at him. At Random. Damn.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Julian was pestering Corwin with some comments he would probably call dark and bitter, and be terribly proud about it. I have nothing against cynical people (now, that would be a paradox, wouldn't it?), but people who enjoy _displaying_ their cynism really get on my nerves sometimes. They could as well wear a T-shirt saying "Look at me, I'm cynical". Exibitionistic. I sipped at my wine, and felt a bit better instantly.   
  
"Now you see that we have," Corwin said in response to some or other remark of Julian's. "We also notice that the real you is no improvement over the old one."   
  
"Whichever you prefer, both of us have been wondering whether you have any idea what you are going to do next."  
  
I laughed out, and regretted it at once, as it attracted a few stares. I was aware of Llewella shaking her head somewhere on the other side of the room. Much worse was the fact that I felt a hand upon my shoulder, and I knew it was Florimel's even before I looked.   
  
"I don't mean to meddle," she said in that terribly tactful, enragingly careful manner of hers. "But wouldn't it be better if you put that down for a while?"  
  
She meant my glass, of course. She removed her hand from my shoulder and stepped back instantly, as a reaction to my smile. My smiles tend to do that to people. Random was there at once, offering me a chair. The irony of the situation struck me, and my smile widened as I sat down. Have I ever had two siblings less favorite than the two of them? Did it have to be just them to fuss about me because they imagined alcohol was affecting me? Once upon a time, while we were still fairly young, Corwin said something about how nice it was to see families do things together, and we all laughed. It was one of his well-known quotables, although he himself quoted it more often than anyone else afterwards. I'm afraid he still does. Anyway, the feeling is very familiar. A bunch of people, painfully polite to each other, pretending they had something to talk about. The manners required from Random and Florimel to be nice to me (although Random usually didn't pay that much attention to manners either). Fiona drunk! I knew how hard they both must have laughed inwardly, and if there was one person that laughed harder, that must have been myself. I still held my glass tightly, and took another sip before I nodded thanks to Random.   
  
Corwin continued his inquiries, and I sat there staring at the Jewel at his throat, listening. I even heard some parts of the story I wasn't aware of, which was useful. Some of it was even amusing: just imagine my pet Sharkies chasing Random through Shadow! But one thing disturbed me greatly: Brand had been able to break through my wards, if for a moment, and reach Random. I thought we had done it perfectly, made it impossible to break through from inside at least. The thought of what might have happened had Brand escaped made me shudder inwardly, and I gulped the rest of my wine down. Damn. I shouldn't have allowed them to set Brand free, by any means. How could have I been so full of myself to think I'd be able to stop them: I am the best (with the exception of Brand, that is) with the mind power, of course, but to think I'd be able to overpower eight of my siblings working together? Vain; and while vanity was completely okay in most of the situations, it was dangerous if it made you act like a fool. And thinking of myself as a fool hurt. Damn.  
  
The situation with Julian also worried me. He sat their, stretching lazily in his armchair, and glanced at me from time to time. Why was he holding back? Brotherly affection? While I thought so for a moment while we stood in the library, now I had other ideas. Call me paranoid, but... Well, just call me paranoid. On one hand, I was probably the only person living that knew about his role in blinding of Corwin. I guessed Gerard didn't have a clue, and Caine and Eric were dead. Having in mind that Corwin was on top at the moment, and that he might want revenge on Julian if he found out... Well, maybe Julian would be willing to trade? I'd keep silent about his secret, and he about mine. How could I have been so careless and let him see what I did, anyway? How _could_ he have seen? Again, I was a fool. But, maybe he'd be willing to trade. On the other hand, maybe he'd do just that: trade, but with Corwin. Corwin might call off the vengeance in exchange for this piece of information. And _then_ I'm screwed. Only, none of this would be at least relevant if Brand lived... What was I going to do?  
  
I wished Bleys was there. He wouldn't know what to do either, but he'd be bloody optimistic about it.   
  
I noticed I had been sipping on an empty glass for some time and stood up, poured myself some more. Which glass was it? Fourth? Fifth? I couldn't remember. I didn't need to get drunk right now, of course, but it seemed to me I was doing just okay. And I needed something to keep me going. Damn, what _was_ I going to do?  
  
I walked back to my chair, smiled at Benedict across the room, knowing he won't smile back. First of all, I had to stop them from noticing there was anything wrong with me. Then, I had to concentrate, to make my mind stop wandering so frantically, and _think_. For perhaps the first time in my life, I was without a plan of action. I hated playing by the ear, and that was what I had to do now. For the second time tonight. Another sip, and my thoughts cleared a bit. If Brand died, everything would be all right, the only problem would be Julian. But I could deal with Julian; after all, I could kill him if nothing else worked. If I was able to put a knife in _Brand's_ side, I'll sure have the stomach to dispose of Julian. And I stabbed Brand almost without hesitation...  
  
No thinking on Brand now. No pondering, no guilt, no anything. No thinking or you'll go mad, and you can't afford it now. Be practical, Fi.  
  
"My guess is that he will be talking by morning," I heard Corwin say, and suddenly I was aware of the things going on around me again.  
  
"What do you propose doing with the guilty party," Julian asked, "if Brand names him?"   
  
He cast a quick sideways glance in my direction, and I hoped no one else noticed. Julian is threatening me, I thought. Or was he simply saying: look, I'm protecting you, you owe me now? I couldn't decide. What would he want in return anyway?  
  
"Question him," Corwin said. And, while Julian was more or less careful not to mention gender, Corwin was excluding the girls, probably unconsciously. Which was okay with me, I don't mind being excluded in a case like this. As for the rest - well, whom are we kidding? Everyone knows that neither Deirdre nor Llewella (Flora I shouldn't even mention) are capable of what I am capable of. A strange thing to be proud of, though.   
  
"Then I would like to do the questioning. I am beginning to feel that you may be right this time, Corwin, and that the person who stabbed him may also be responsible for our intermittent state of siege, for Dad's disappearance, and for Caine's killing. So I would enjoy questioning him before we cut his throat, and I would like to volunteer for that last part also."   
  
I wasn't sure how much Julian knew, and I didn't want to guess, but suddenly I thought I knew what he was doing. He was threatening me, yes, but maybe he didn't simply want to blackmail me. The more I thought of it, the more likely it all seemed. He wanted me to confess my part, perhaps blame the rest on Brand and Bleys, and get done with it. He couldn't have known exactly how much of a threat Brand was, but I knew he must have known some of it at that moment. So, according to him, I should come in the open myself, and then we can decide what to do next. So, come on sister, fess up. I broke the window. I set Flora's hair on fire. It was me who fed absinthe to your favorite hellhound. Dammit, I wished it was that easy.   
  
On the other hand, if Brand was indeed going to live, the worst thing I could do was simply keep silent. Damn it, he was a psycho, a threat to our world. He meant to destroy her. Amber. In that case, my own safety was of no importance at all. And I saw what was on Julian's mind, then. If I told everything by myself, if I "repented" and offered my help against Brand, I still stood a chance with the rest of the siblings. Which would mean I'd have to let myself be judged by Random and Deirdre and the like, of course. On the other hand, if I kept silent, Julian would simply say what he saw, in which case I'm screwed. That was what Julian's threat was all about, I thought: say it yourself, or I'll say it. Fess up, or I'll tell on! I took a sip of wine and chuckled. Oh, how I wished I could watch this happen to someone else. Say... to Deirdre.  
  
Why did Bleys have to be away? How did he always succeed avoiding in the worst situations? I didn't want to got through all this alone. It simply wasn't fair...  
  
Fair? I rolled my eyes, and almost chuckled again. I must be quite drunk to begin thinking like this. Who cared about fair in Amber? I knew I didn't.  
  
In some situations you can laugh at yourself or go mad. Had Brand been able to do this, who knows what would have happened. But... let's not go there. Brand, who wanted to destroy Amber on me...  
  
Benedict's words almost echoed my thoughts, and that made me snap back to the present situation.  
  
"I cannot see you, me, Corwin, the others as actually trying to destroy Amber, or willing to gamble with forces that would. That is the part I do not like about Corwin's notion that one of us is behind this."  
  
"It may be," Random said, "that one of us made the deal but underestimated his allies. The guilty party may now be sweating this thing as much as the rest of us. He may not be in a position to turn things off now, even if he wants to."  
  
I didn't like the sound of this, as it was too close to the reality, and I wondered if Random knew more than he was letting on... And Random, of all people! It would be better to be revealed even by Julian than by Random. So, was confessing an option? I wasn't sure, I needed some time to think. However, the time was about the only thing I didn't have, and I had to keep my possibilities open.  
  
"We could offer him the opportunity," I said, not giving myself more time to ponder, "to betray his allies to us now. If Julian could be persuaded to leave his throat uncut and the rest of us were willing to do the same, he might come around-if Random's guess is correct. He would not claim the throne, but he was obviously not about to have it before. He would have his life and he could save Amber quite a bit of trouble. Is anyone willing to commit himself to a position on this?"  
  
I kept smiling and sipped the wine, wondering what their answers would be... 


End file.
